


little bird

by watfordbird33



Series: soft quiet moments [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 13:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10465851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watfordbird33/pseuds/watfordbird33
Summary: They talk in between moments like photographs. Little dialogues that lose their meaning because, oh God, they're so insane in love.





	

“Shh.”

“But--”

“No. Come here.”

“Chirrut--”

“Baze.”

“I'm--I’m so tired of this.”

“I know.”

“Don't let go.”

 

And these are conversations whispered in secret on the ship Cassian Andor stole. These are heartbeats counting down. Running out of infinity, like time.

 

“We’re going to die, Chirrut.”

“We’ll die for the Force.”

“Just promise me--”

“Anything.”

“Promise me you won’t go before me.”

“Oh,  _ bena le.  _ Little bird. Oh, I can’t promise that.”

“You said anything.”

“I don’t want to live without you, either. I don’t want a single moment to exist without you in it.”

 

“How long have you known each other?” Jyn asks Chirrut, and Baze watches with a smirk, because he knows Chirrut’s answer is ever-changing. Because he knows they’ve been asked this question so many times before.

Chirrut’s smile is this deep, startling thing: knowledge without eyes. “Forever,” he says, and Baze is satisfied.

 

“You call me little bird.”

“I know.”

“Why? I’m not little. I’m not little at all.”

“You’re little inside. You’re like a child. You don’t think. You don’t listen to the Force.”

“But I’m not a bird, either.”

“Sometimes a pet name is just a pet name, Baze. Sometimes that’s all it is.”

 

Before the ship, before Eadu, before Jedha in flames, there is breath.

They don’t talk, but they breathe together. Soft. They lie against each other in the dark, and Chirrut’s naked body is covered in scars.

 

“I like it.”

“Like what?”

“The name you call me.”

_ “Bena le.” _

“Mmmm.”

“I like that sound you make.”

“Mmmm.”

“Yes. That one.”

 

The day before the temple is dismantled, Chirrut goes out to the market alone and comes back with pastries and sweet caf steaming in his arms.

“Eat,” he says, “drink. Be merry.”

“They’re tearing down the temple,” Baze says.

“So we should exist within it while we can.”

They eat the pastries, tearing the soft flaky crust apart, and then they drink the sweet caf and taste it on each other’s lips. When they undress each other, their hands are sticky. Bittersweet. Baze traces constellations between Chirrut’s white scars.

 

“Baze.”

“Yes.”

“Do you really believe in the Force? Or do you just pretend?”

 

“How long have you known each other?” Bodhi asks Chirrut, and Baze watches with a smirk, because he knows Chirrut’s answer is ever-changing. Because he knows they’ve been asked this question so many times before.

Chirrut’s smile is this deep, startling thing: knowledge without eyes. “Not nearly long enough,” he says, and Baze is satisfied.

 

“I’m scared.”

“So am I.”

“You’re not scared of anything.”

“Well, neither are you.”

 

This is the tale they’ll tell, later. Bold warriors, unafraid.

They don’t account for the blood. Or for the way Baze’s whole body collapses in on itself: a falling star. He shouts Chirrut’s name, but nothing comes out except silence, and breath.

Breathing, breathing. All those scars. 

And constellations, one by one.

Chirrut,  _ mir bena le.  _ Chirrut, my little bird. 

Sometimes a pet name is just a pet name. Sometimes that’s all it is.

 

“You know what we’ve never done?”

“Many things.”

“One thing in particular.”

“What?”

“We’ve never said  _ I love you. _ ”

“Oh.”

“...”

“I thought it was implied.”

 

When Baze falls to his knees, reaches for Chirrut, it shakes the ground. He’s like a tree coming to earth. A hurricane that’s found its home, or lost it.

 

“Chirrut? Do you remember, how long we’ve known each other?”

“Forever.”

“Oh, give me a real answer.”

“I think I’ve forgotten, honestly.”

“Have you really?”

“It might as well be forever.”

 

It takes them years just to get their clothes off, to ease onto the bed, to grow accustomed to the way their naked bodies feel, side by side. They are not physical people.

“Have you ever done this before?” Chirrut whispers.

“No.”

“Me, neither.”

“I don’t know how.”

“We don’t have to.”

“I want to, though,” Baze says.

“Me, too.”

It takes them months from there just to move instead of lying still, to press lips to shoulders and chests, to fit themselves against each other. They are not physical people, but they teach themselves to be. 

 

“Would you like to know a secret?”

“Of course.”

“You’re beautiful.”

 

All of their stories begin and end with  _ now. _

They don’t look to the future, and it’s a good thing, too, because if they did, they’d see themselves on a collision course. Asteroids unable to slow down.

Blank eyes and spiraling. Breath and the absence of it. But then there’s this: they take their soft quiet moments one by one.

 

“I wish you’d let me give you a real haircut.”

“You’re blind. I don’t trust you with a knife. Besides, you can’t see how long it’s gotten.”

“I can feel, though. You’re all scratchy when I kiss you. I can’t get a good grip on your shoulders anymore.”

“What an absurd reason to cut my hair.”

“Would you rather I stop kissing you?”

 

Later (but later isn’t much, seeing how there is only a minute or two between their deaths), Baze thinks of parentheses.

He thinks of the space between them. Bookends and empty page.

Chirrut at one end. Baze at the other. They don’t look to the future, but Baze still sees his end.

_ I don’t want to live without you, either. I don’t want a single moment to exist without you in it. _

His blaster’s like another hand. Just an extension of his will. When he gets hit, his blaster feels it too. And the sky. The sky feels it. The whole world. Chirrut. Chirrut, the Force. It cries for me. It cries for you.

 

“Baze.  _ Bena le.” _

“Chirrut.”

“Would you like to know another secret?”

“Of course.”

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Soft quiet moments" is a phrase that belongs to cypress_tree, who left me one of the kindest comments I have ever received.


End file.
